Wonder in Bryant Park.

This season, stand in the middle of Bryant Park should you want to do a favor for yourself.

Walk through the fleur-de-lis golden gates and take in the oversized bronze lampposts, the balustrades separating the various plateaus, the monumental urns and ginger pots, the festooned grotto where William Cullen Bryant surveys it all, stroll past the little shops in their glass huts, the golden hues of their lights spreading out like candles in the dark, where the smiling shopkeeps sell the warmth of hot cider and cocoa and truffles and scarves, step up to the ice skating rink lit with blues and reds turning every turning skater rosy in the night, move towards the center and spin, take in the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, the Bank of America Tower, and the gold-leafed Bryant Park Hotel, and if you are particularly lucky, Harry Connick, Jr. will be singing And A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square and everybody is smiling, everybody, in love, perhaps, with each other, but most certainly, in love with the night, paying no heed to the garish sun.